


That Music I Hear

by justkeeponwriting



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:49:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3143174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkeeponwriting/pseuds/justkeeponwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Most nights, the open mic night can be summed up in one word: boring. But Dean has been coming to The Roadhouse for a decade now, and he’s not about to let that habit die just because some college kids think they can become the next Ed Sheeran or who-the-hell-ever is the new popular white guy with acoustic guitar right now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Music I Hear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CasButt_SassButt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasButt_SassButt/gifts).



> Written for DeanCas Secret Santa 2014, for CasButt_SassButt. Based on their prompt 2: “Dean discovers the new singer at the local bar has stunning blue eyes.” I also took a bit of inspiration from prompt 3 and made Dean a firefighter. Hope you’ll find this adequate!

Dean’s work schedule never stays the same, but if there’s one thing that’s predictable, it’s that he usually has Thursdays off. He doesn’t mind Thursdays, but Thursdays are also in the regrettable position of being too close and yet too far away from the weekend – meaning, all of his friends who have 9-to-5 jobs don’t have it off, and as his long walks around the city have proven throughout the years, society as a whole has also deemed Thursdays as an unacceptable day to do anything interesting. Everyone who is not at work is apparently spending the day either running errands or sleeping at home. So, on Thursdays Dean does the one thing that he can to stave off the boredom: he goes to The Roadhouse.

Dean’s been coming to The Roadhouse ever since he could legally drink (and a little before that, and though he’s very careful not to mention that to Ellen, he suspects that she knows anyway), and throughout the years, very little has changed about it. It still seems dusty in the dim lighting, despite Jo and Ellen cleaning the space diligently, and it still feels just as cozy as when Dean first set a foot in there. There are very few people sitting at the round tables scattered around the room, and no one at the bar, but that’s the usual sight that greets Dean on Thursday noons. Truthfully, Dean sort of likes it. He also comes to The Roadhouse on busier nights, but the feeling of the place is entirely different then; on Thursdays, it’s relaxed, lazy, comfy. On Saturday nights, it’s upbeat and fun.

Dean makes his way to the bar and smiles when he spots a familiar back turned to him. “Hi, Jo.”

The petite blonde stacking glasses to the shelves doesn’t even turn around when Dean greets her.

“Hi, Dean. You’re early today. World of Warcraft losing its appeal?”

“You should do stand-up, with that gift for comedy,” Dean says, taking a seat by the bar. He never should’ve mentioned to Jo how Charlie had introduced him to gaming, and he particularly never should’ve introduced those two to each other. Jo Harvelle has been present for more than a few embarrassing moments of Dean’s life for years now, and Charlie Bradbury has been present for a ton of embarrassing moments of Dean’s life, starting in high school. Putting those two in the same room was not a bright idea. (Well, Jo and Charlie tend to disagree with that.)

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Jo grins, finally turning around. She rubs her hands together, self-satisfied at having finished moving the glasses to the upper shelves. Sadly, that probably has been the high point of her day so far.

“Fine, it got boring,” Dean confesses. “Happy now?”

“Not really,” Jo says. “I’m serious, Dean, you should take up knitting or something.”

Dean ignores her advice. It’s a conversation they’ve had many times before – Jo complaining that Dean never does anything interesting on his time off, and Dean secretly agreeing but not wanting to confess that. It’s not like he hates sitting at The Roadhouse during Thursday afternoons, but he does it more out of habit at this point than for any genuine enjoyment. Talking to Jo or Ellen (or Ash or Anna, if they happen to have a shift) is nice, sure, but he’d do that elsewhere, too. It’s just that he doesn’t really have anything better to do on his days off. Sam is busy being a hot-shot lawyer and having 9-to-5-to-midnight-because-of-overtime office hours, so it’s not like he can hang out at any given time; Charlie isn’t particularly happy in her office job, but she’d never miss a workday; and that about concludes Dean’s social circle. Any hobbies that he might have had after college didn’t stick, and besides, his odd working hours make sure that he can’t start any new ones. People are usually very interested to learn that he’s a fireman, but the interest dissolves after one romp in the sheets or when they learn that he’s pretty much sleeping on his time off.

Dean smiles and quickly shakes off any grim thoughts that he’s certainly not having. “How’s your day been so far?”

Jo shrugs. “Lazy. You know. Like a regular Thursday. Oh, except Rufus came in the morning. Had to nicely escort him out.”

By which Jo probably means ‘had to throw him out.’

“Ouch.”

“He had it coming,” Jo says, and Dean believes her. Rufus is a nice guy, whenever he’s not sulking with a bottle of whiskey and spouting trivia about supernatural beings that may or may not exist in the neighborhood.

Dean starts a game of tic-tac-toe with Jo on a napkin, and they do a few rounds of that while idly chatting. Jo serves a couple of customers, and then it gets quiet again. Dean simply sits there and orders a drink whenever he runs out of the last one – usually winding up with the pace of one per hour. Jo would happily let him sit there without ordering anything and chatting with her for the whole day, but Dean feels better if he orders something, even if it’s just for show. The Roadhouse isn’t falling apart, but it’s also not the most profitable place.

The afternoon turns into the evening, and around six, more people start to come in. Dean ignores them at first, as he always does, but when the clock strikes six thirty, he’s forced to pay attention. When Dean first started to come to The Roadhouse, they didn’t have an open mic night – the most entertainment they had were a few old board games someone had left lying around. A few years ago, Jo got the idea to hold open mic nights to generate more crowd during weeks, and somehow managed to get Ellen agree, and to her credit, it’s turned into a small success, to Dean’s eternal agony. Most nights, the open mic night is more like a montage of rejected auditions from _American Idol_ that ended up on the cutting room floor, simply because they weren’t entertainingly bad enough. In fact, most nights, the open mic night can be summed up in one word: boring. But Dean has been coming to The Roadhouse for a decade now, and he’s not about to let that habit die just because some college kids think they can become the next Ed Sheeran or who-the-hell-ever is the new popular white guy with acoustic guitar right now.

Dean politely listens to the first two singers – an Asian kid who looks way too young to be singing in a bar, but doesn’t do that badly, and a brunette who, despite the self-assured air around her, completely butchers _Wonderwall_. Not that that poor song hasn’t been sung to death before.

“Sheesh,” Dean simply comments when she finishes, and turns his attention back to his beer. Jo, who by chance isn’t pouring someone a drink right then, laughs at him.

“What? I thought she had a cute voice,” Jo argues.

“So maybe you should ask her number,” Dean teases. Jo flushes red, and Dean quirks his eyebrows at that. He doesn’t have a chance to continue baiting Jo, because a customer swoops in right then, and besides, the next singer’s already adjusting the mic.

Dean only glances at the guy sitting by the mic before turning back to his drink. The guy looks a bit older than others, but carrying a guitar and in that blue t-shirt and glasses, he completely blends in with all the other performers. Dean’s hardly listening when the guy plays the first chords.

And then he starts to sing, and Dean’s world stops. Cliché or not, that’s exactly how Dean feels.

Dean turns back to stare at the guy, and he has to crane his neck in order to get a look at him, because other people are taking a notice of him as well. Dean makes out a stubbly guy, maybe in his thirties, with a wind-blown dark hair and thick-framed glasses, and he can’t match the voice with the face. It seems unreal.

The thing is, Dean has seen them all. He’s seen the blandest of Justin Bieber wannabes, the most eccentric of Meatloaf wannabes, and the most heartbreaking and annoying of Amy Winehouse wannabes who think they can sing when no one has the guts to tell them the truth. But this guy… this guy is something that Dean has never seen before. Christ, how can someone sing their heart out to [_Angels_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5-MFCtCNX4) and not come off as douchey, Dean doesn’t know, but the guy is pulling it off. It’s like the guy doesn’t have an ounce of modesty or shame. He sings like he means the words, and he sings like he’s living through the music, and the weirdest thing is that he actually _pulls it off_. He has a great voice, he has an excellent stage-presence and charisma, and he knows it, and isn’t afraid to use it to his advantage. He knows exactly how the crowd is looking at him, and he’s reflecting that all back, and it’s absolutely working: Dean, for one, is completely stunned.

People usually sing only one song, maximum two songs, and Dean finds himself wishing that the guy would perform another song. Maybe his charisma only works with this one song. Maybe he really can’t play something else, or maybe it’s a fluke.

It’s not a fluke. When he drums the last chord of _Angels_ , the crowd is stunned for a second, and then the cheers start. People don’t clap politely – they clap like they mean it, as a compliment. The guy ducks his head – as if he’s surprised by their attention, how is that possible? – and then simply starts a new song. People immediately stop clapping and cheering, and there’s an unnerving silence as he slowly plucks a new melody.

He sings [some jazzy tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1zChXBBQ2U) that Dean doesn’t even recognize, but he still finds himself mesmerized by that gruff voice that somehow slides right inside him and pulls him by the heartstrings, if that is even possible. It certainly feels like it.

Dean finds himself wondering what else those talented fingers can do, and promptly attempts to drown himself in his drink. What the hell, he hasn’t even talked to the guy, let alone gotten a good look at him, and yet, here he is, attracted to a _voice_. Who does that?

Jo notices his discomfort, and Dean doesn’t even try to stop her when she smirks evilly at him and leans close to his ear so she can say, “So maybe you should ask his number.”

Dean flinches away, annoyed. He doesn’t usually do the… guy thing. This isn’t the first time he’s been attracted to a man (wait, he hasn’t even seen this guy, he can’t be attracted to him), but since college, his crushes have been short-lived and he hasn’t acted out on any urges. All of his relationships have been with women, and though he hasn’t given it any thought, he can’t say that a relationship with a guy would be completely out of question.

This is heading to a dangerous territory, Dean realizes, and forces himself to think about something else.

It’s just as well, because the guy ends the jazzy song right then, and the next person who takes the stage is a godawful Amy Winehouse wannabe. Dean listens to her belt out horribly for a minute, until he gives up and raises his finger at Jo to signal her that he wants another drink. Jo sees it and nods, although she’s serving another customer right then. Dean stares at the bottles decorating the wall as he waits for Jo, but when she brings him a new bottle of beer, she immediately ignores him and turns to the patron taking the seat next to Dean.

“Hey, weren’t you on stage just now?” Jo asks, too brightly. “You were really good!”

“Thank you,” a gravelly voice answers from Dean’s right. Dean nearly chokes on his beer.

He chances a peek to his right. It’s really the guy with mussed dark hair and glasses, but up close he doesn’t really look like a hipster or like the other wannabe singers populating the bar. Dean can’t peg him as anything; the thick glasses almost seem like an afterthought, like a disguise, because the man’s hands (and arms) look very strong, and the stubble coating his sharp jaw makes him look both intimidating and in a weird way, friendly.

Sensing the stare, the man turns to look at Dean, and just like when Dean heard the first notes of this guy singing, it feels like the world stops. Even in the dim lighting of the bar, Dean can see that the man’s eyes are shockingly blue, and for a moment, he feels like he's falling.

The man’s lips curve into a very small smile, one that Dean hardly sees. Dean unconsciously licks his lips.

Jo chooses that moment to reappear, handing the man his drink (a bottle of beer, same label that Dean’s been drinking) and then disappears just as fast. Dean turns back to his own beer, but he feels the stranger’s eyes track his movement.

It’s all starting to resemble a little too much a rom-com, and Dean’s growing uncomfortable with it. He knows without a shadow of doubt that if it was a woman sitting next to him, he’d definitely interpret the small smile and the heavy gaze on him as a sign to _just start talking_ and stop staring at his drink, and who knows where they’d end up from there?

But Dean’s too shaken to make a move. Hell, he doesn’t even know what he wants to do. The guy surely has a wonderful voice, but maybe he’s a douchebag in real life. Maybe those two songs are all he knows. Maybe Dean’s just overreacting or reading too much into it.

Dean does the one thing he surmises is the logical thing to do. He slams his half-finished beer on the table and flees.

 

* * *

 

“You’re an idiot,” Victor tells him the next day at work.

It’s not a reference to Dean’s behavior last night, but it might as well be. Dean hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the blue-eyed stranger and his damn voice for 24 hours, which leads him to this particular moment.

Dean looks down, and is annoyed to notice that he’s been unsuccessfully trying to fasten the hose back to its place. He corrects the angle and puts the hose back, daily inspection now complete.

“Dean, you feeling okay?” Benny asks him.

“Peachy,” Dean says. Victor scoffs, and honestly, he has every right to.

“Then stop wallowing and start acting,” Victor says, and even if it’s an advice to a completely different thing, Dean can’t help but feel that Victor is right.

Dean has a lot of time to think. He loves his job, really, but sometimes, the 24-hour shifts start to take their toll on him. There’s a lot of downtime when he’s on call, and though he tries to take every inspection seriously and put an effort to everything he does, there’s still a lot of time to kill when there aren’t any emergencies. Because he’s shared the shift with the same guys for years now, they know each other so well that sometimes there’s simply no need to talk or nothing to talk about, which leaves too much time for Dean to, well, wallow, as Victor put it.

It’s ridiculous, and Dean knows it. He hasn’t exchanged a single word with the blue-eyed stranger (as he now calls the guy in his head), and yet, Dean feels like he’s missing out on something.

And thus, one 24-hour shift and a good night’s sleep later, Dean reaches the conclusion that if he ever sees the blue-eyed stranger again… well… Against all hope, Dean starts to hope that the blue-eyed singer will make another appearance at The Roadhouse. It’s probably too much to hope for – after all, most of those who come during the open mic night only come for that, and never return, moving onto another bar with another open mic.

Next Thursday, Jo gives him a funny look when he shows up later than usual and dressed in a green Henley. He also might’ve spent a little while arranging his hair, which he’d never admit out loud.

“Wow, World of Warcraft is really taking its toll on you,” Jo comments.

“I quit,” Dean sighs. “I told you. It got boring.”

“Did you take up on knitting?” Jo asks, smiling.

“Maybe I will.”

Jo gives him another look. “Wow. Well, make me a pair of socks, if you really do.”

“Socks?”

“Everybody needs socks.”

“Noted,” Dean says, bewildered.

Dean spends the next hour drumming his fingers against the bar and occasionally taking a nervous sip of his beer. He feels ridiculous, but the feeling dissipates instantly when the open mic night starts and right out of the bat, the blue-eyed singer makes an appearance. He’s the second performer tonight, and he sings two songs again. Dean doesn’t recognize either of them, but they sound kind of folk-ish, and startled, Dean realizes that the blue-eyed stranger does have a good range – last time, he did pop and jazz, and this time, it’s folk. Dean doesn’t know the first thing about playing a guitar, but even he can recognize when someone is good at that. The blue-eyed stranger has an oddly gruff voice that seems to fit almost anything he sings, which is impressive.

Like last time, when the stranger sings, Dean nearly feels like the world stops. The feeling’s not as intense as last time, but it’s definitely still there, and Dean can see that he’s not the only one caught up on the stranger’s voice – people really stop and listen, and again, the cheers and claps are genuine.

Dean discreetly follows the stranger when he leaves the mic and walks through the crowd. Once again, he comes to sit by the bar, and takes the seat on Dean’s right. (Dean might’ve ensured that it was unoccupied earlier.)

The stranger orders a beer from Jo, and after he gets it, he glances at Dean. Dean steadily returns the gaze.

“Hi,” Dean says.

“Hello,” the guy says, and Dean promptly runs out of words. He swallows and tries to regain his composure.

“You, uh, sing really well,” he finally settles on saying.

“Thank you.”

“I heard you last week as well. I mean, you’re really good.”

It’s apparently the right thing to say, because the guy’s face seems to melt a little, and there’s a hint of friendly glimmer in his eyes. Dean tries not to stare, but it’s pretty hard, given that those damn blue eyes are focused on him.

“I’m Dean,” he remembers to offer.

“Castiel,” the man says.

“So, is singing your main job?”

Castiel snorts. “Unfortunately not. I’m a government official in my daily life.”

“You’re a what?” Dean says. “Never would’ve guessed that, dude.”

“It’s much more boring than you’d think,” Castiel says with a smile.

“Hey, at least it sounds impressive.”

Castiel looks at his beer. “I suppose. What do you do, Dean?”

“I’m a firefighter,” Dean says.

“You’re a firefighter,” Castiel repeats.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean intelligently says.

“Hm,” Castiel says, nodding. There’s a fifty per cent chance that Castiel finds that bit of information actually interesting, and fifty per cent chance that he’s bored out of his mind and is simply pretending. Dean can’t really tell.

“What, would you have guessed that?” Dean asks. It comes out flirtier than he intended, but Castiel doesn’t seem to pick up on that.

“I would’ve guessed construction,” Castiel says. When Dean raises his brows, Castiel continues, “You seem very strong and in shape. A physical job seemed like the obvious answer.”

“What’re you, reading my mind?” Dean laughs. “I do construction on the side. Not that much anymore, but occasionally.”

“Is that so,” Castiel says, and there’s definitely a friendly glimmer in his eyes now.

After a short lull in conversation, Dean dared to confess, “I didn’t recognize the songs you played tonight.”

“I would be surprised if you did recognize them,” Castiel says. “I just composed them.”

Dean blinks. “You wrote ‘em?”

“Yes?” Castiel looks at him, and Dean momentarily feels like he’s drowning. Then he scoffs at himself in his mind, because he’s way too close to rom-com clichés in his opinion.

“They were really good, Cas,” Dean says, honestly.

“You think so?” Castiel asks, smiling, and Dean smiles back.

Castiel turns out to not be a douchebag. Nor does he only know two songs – in fact, he demonstrates so wide knowledge of all kinds of music that Dean has to give up at some point and say, “Look, I mostly just listen to 70’s or 80’s junk.”

“Nothing wrong with having preferences,” Castiel smiles.

“I might recognize a Beethoven song, but hell if I can name one.” Dean takes a sip of his beer – funny, he’s been drinking much less ever since Cas sat down. “Have you studied music?”

“Not really,” Castiel says. “My sister taught me to play the piano when I was younger, but I picked on guitar all on my own. Mostly from the internet.”

“Wow. And here I thought for one fleeting second that you’d be one of those classical prodigies from Juilliard.”

“I’m a different kind of prodigy,” Castiel says, raising his brows. Dean laughs.

“You definitely are,” he says. A look passes between them, and something akin to electricity flickers through Dean.

“You are very interesting, Dean,” Cas says.

Hell, nobody talks like that. No one ever says something like that. And yet, Dean can only nod and stare into Castiel’s hypnotizing eyes and hope that they’ve hopped on the same ride.

“Likewise, Cas,” Dean says.

Those eyes. Those damn blue eyes will haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Cas,” Dean says, but it comes out as a question, or perhaps a plea. Dean’s lucky that Castiel seems to understand what he’s asking for, because Dean doesn’t have a clue how to articulate what he’s feeling.

Cas stands up. Dean stares as Castiel slowly intertwines their fingers, the touch light and ready to back off at any second. Dean hesitates only a millisecond, and then he takes Cas’s hand and squeezes back.

Their half-finished beers are left behind as Cas drags Dean to the side; there are three doors there, two leading to the bathrooms and one to a storage. They don’t make it to any of those before Dean gives in and leans close and presses a kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth.

Cas comes alive instantly, turning around and correcting the angle, and then he’s suddenly kissing Dean. It’s unlike any kiss Dean’s ever shared before: the feel of stubble against his skin is a new-old one (something Dean hasn’t thought about in years), but Dean instantly loves it. Cas intently licks his lips and when Dean opens his mouth, a tongue presses against his. It escalates into Dean grabbing a hold of Cas’s neck and Cas’s hands winding up on his hips, and then Cas pushes him against the wall, and Dean feels his knees go weak; but that’s nothing compared to the feeling of the ground disappearing from under him when Cas kisses him, hot and heavy. Dean groans into Cas’s mouth, and kisses back just as fervently.

“Here,” Dean breathes when he gets the chance, forcing the door next to him open and pulling Cas with him inside. The door says “staff only”, but Dean’s been there before; the small room they tumble in is just a storage, full of liquor cases, an old, broken ladder and boxes with unidentifiable junk, but it’s good enough. Cas distracts Dean with kisses to the jaw – he might’ve planned those or not, it’s hard to tell in the darkness – and it takes Dean a few tries to find the switch. The old light bulb buzzes angrily and flashes a few times before giving them some kind of light, but neither of them cares much about the very dim lighting. Cas presses Dean determinedly against the wall, and Dean goes very willingly, spreading his legs and grabbing Cas’s arms to pull him closer.

Cas grinds against Dean, still kissing Dean with all he’s got, and Dean moans when their crotches meet. There’s a very obvious bulge pressing against his, and while it’s a new-old feeling, it’s welcome and feels so good. Dean grinds back, pulling Cas impossibly closer by his arms, momentarily impressed by how strong they are, and then lets his hands roam to Castiel’s backside. That pulls a very pretty moan from Cas, and smiling, Dean grinds against him again.

It’s not particularly coordinated, or even pretty; they’re in a storage room, literally two feet away from other customers and only a flimsy door separating them from the world, but it’s hard to care, when his focus is solely on Castiel and how good it feels. Cas grinds against him like it’s his single goal in life, and Dean can’t help but whimper at that. He slides his hands down on Cas’s backside, cupping his ass, and Cas lets out a wonderful groan at that and kisses Dean again in a way that leaves him breathless.

Dean bites Cas’s jaw gently, and slides his hands slightly upwards, pushing his fingers under the hemline of Cas’s t-shirt and feeling the smooth skin of his backside. Cas returns the favor by nipping at Dean’s lips and then suddenly sliding down to bite and lick on his collarbone. It’s kind of insane that they’re still fully clothed and moving against each other so frantically that it makes Dean feel dizzy. Dean hasn’t come in his pants since he was a teenager, but he’s starting to be damn close right then.

“Is this okay?” Cas asks. Dean’s about to snap that everything Cas does is okay, in fact, it’s fucking _fantastic_ , but then he feels fingers press right against his erection, and his zipper.

“Yes,” Dean breathes, and kisses Cas again. Cas answers the kiss, momentarily distracted, before he goes back to opening Dean’s jeans.

Dean looks down, and seeing Castiel slowly open his zipper while giving him a heated look definitely shoots right on top of the ten most erotic moments of his life, in all of its vague innocence.

Cas slides his hand inside of Dean’s jeans, cupping his cock through his boxers, and Dean whines. He starts to grind against Cas’s hand, but that doesn’t go on for very long; Cas kisses him again – Dean’s starting to realize that kissing might be one of Cas’s favorite things to do, and he is so on board with that – and then, all hesitation gone, Cas slips his hand inside Dean’s boxers and takes Dean’s cock in his hand.

Dean pants, already on edge, but when Cas starts to move his hand, it’s almost as if a switch is turned on, and after that point, there is no return for Dean. He starts to fervently move against Cas, and it’s weird, but Cas almost seems to know beforehand when to twist his hand and how to thumb the head of his cock. Dean moans so loudly that Cas needs to quickly kiss him to muffle the sound.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean says, gripping Cas’s hips as if he is drowning. “I… Shit!”

“Dean,” Cas says, and Dean definitely loves how there are so many layers in that one word.

“Uh,” Dean says, and even that almost takes all of his capacity right then. A wave rushes through him, and he can feel nearing his orgasm, but he definitely doesn’t want to reach it alone.

“Hold on,” Dean says, gasping for air. Cas’s movements slow down, and Dean takes the chance to slip his fingers to Cas’s zipper and pull it down.

“You sure?” Cas asks, and Dean doesn’t know if it’s that obvious that he hasn’t done this in a while or if Cas is just that considerate, but that’s not going to fly with him.

“Hell yeah,” Dean says, and pushes his hand inside Cas’s briefs. Cas makes a very pretty face when he’s gasping for air, Dean decides, and immediately tries to get that face again as he slides his fist on Castiel’s cock. Cas is leaking with pre-come, and if the little “uh uh _uh_ ” sounds are anything to go by, Dean’s definitely not doing bad.

They start to grind together again, jacking each other off in a rushed pace, pressing so close that it’s getting harder to move, but neither wants to back away. Cas kisses him again, swallowing Dean’s gasps, and Dean answers the kiss and pulls Cas even closer by the hips. Cas twists his hand, and Dean’s cock twitches, and he sees stars.

Dean only has time to kiss Cas again, before he feels it coming, and sees stars again.

“Shit, shit, shit, _Cas_ , Ca—” And that’s it, Dean’s brain is officially fried; he comes against Cas’s hand and panting against Cas’s neck, and the slippery sounds his cock makes against Cas’s hand is definitely going to the spank bank.

“Dean,” Cas gasps, and then he’s coming as well, grinding hard against Dean and shooting his load on Dean’s arm. It’s different than what Dean’s used to, but it’s _good_ different.

Cas collapses against him, resting his head against Dean’s neck, and they stay there gasping for air for some time. At some point, Dean lifts his other hand (the one not covered in semen) and rakes his fingers through Cas’s mussed hair, and he feels Cas smile against his skin as he does that.

When their breathing has calmed down, Dean finds some old rag left on top of the boxes, and wipes his hand on it before offering it to Castiel. He wrinkles his nose, and Dean laughs at that, but Cas finally takes the rag and cleans up as well. Cas throws the rag into a corner when he’s done, and Dean hopes that Jo won’t find that the next time she cleans in here.

They lean against the wall together, not quite hugging or cuddling, but staying close and enjoying the afterglow. Dean wants to be closer, but he doesn’t know how, and he’s not sure how to go on from here.

“Well, that was…” Castiel says, and then lets the sentence fade away, as if he can’t find the words.

“Yeah,” Dean says, because he can’t find the words, either. All he knows is that that was some damn fantastic sex, with a damn fantastic person.

Cas looks at him, questioning, and Dean lets him, not shying away from the gaze. There’s something poignant in Castiel’s look, but Dean looks steadily back.

Those damn blue eyes will haunt him for the rest of his life if he doesn’t do something, Dean realizes.

“Hey, uh, Cas,” Dean finally manages. “Would you… do you wanna get coffee with me, some time?”

Castiel stares at him. Dean tries not to feel disappointed before he even gets an answer.

“As in a date?” Castiel finally asks.

“As in a date,” Dean confirms, resigned.

Castiel smiles, and this time, the smile reaches his eyes, making them shine. Dean can’t look away even if he wanted to.

Castiel leans close and kisses him lightly on the lips.

“I’d love to,” he says, and it’s music to Dean’s ears.


End file.
